“You are going to sell your cattle, I suppose....  It’s good business!”

Malahin sighs and, looking calmly at the oiler’s black face, tells him that trading in cattle used certainly to be profitable, but now it has become a risky and losing business.

“I have a mate here,” the oiler interrupts him.  “You merchant gentlemen might make him a little present....”

Malahin gives something to the mate too.  The troop train goes quickly and the waits at the stations are comparatively short.  The old man is pleased.  The pleasant impression made by the young man in the rough overcoat has gone deep, the vodka he has drunk slightly clouds his brain, the weather is magnificent, and everything seems to be going well.  He talks without ceasing, and at every stopping place runs to the refreshment bar.  Feeling the need of a listener, he takes with him first the guard, and then the engine-driver, and does not simply drink, but makes a long business of it, with suitable remarks and clinking of glasses.

“You have your job and we have ours,” he says with an affable smile.  “May God prosper us and you, and not our will but His be done.”

The vodka gradually excites him and he is worked up to a great pitch of energy.  He wants to bestir himself, to fuss about, to make inquiries, to talk incessantly.  At one minute he fumbles in his pockets and bundles and looks for some form.  Then he thinks of something and cannot remember it; then takes out his pocketbook, and with no sort of object counts over his money.  He bustles about, sighs and groans, clasps his hands....  Laying out before him the letters and telegrams from the meat salesmen in the city, bills, post office and telegraphic receipt forms, and his note book, he reflects aloud and insists on Yasha’s listening.

And when he is tired of reading over forms and talking about prices, he gets out at the stopping places, runs to the vans where his cattle are, does nothing, but simply clasps his hands and exclaims in horror.

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” he says in a complaining voice.  “Holy Martyr Vlassy!  Though they are bullocks, though they are beasts, yet they want to eat and drink as men do....  It’s four days and nights since they have drunk or eaten.  Oh, dear! oh, dear!”

Yasha follows him and does what he is told like an obedient son.  He does not like the old man’s frequent visits to the refreshment bar.  Though he is afraid of his father, he cannot refrain from remarking on it.

“So you have begun already!” he says, looking sternly at the old man.  “What are you rejoicing at?  Is it your name-day or what?”

“Don’t you dare teach your father.”

“Fine goings on!”